


It Started In Rome

by cockles_take_the_wheel



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Cockles, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, F/M, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:40:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cockles_take_the_wheel/pseuds/cockles_take_the_wheel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jensen presses his mouth, hot and wet, to the salty skin of Misha’s neck in an empty hall, the only thing he can think is ‘this is what was missing’. And it’s as if a part of him comes to life. </p><p>“I want this.” Jensen whispers. </p><p>-</p><p>JIBCon III April 2012</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Started In Rome

 

 

  
 

  

It was late, and Jensen was exhausted. Conventions always left him feeling frayed and scattered, but these European cons were worst. Between the jet lag, and the language barrier, it was a miracle he could he  _think_ , let alone host panels and answer questions.

He tried his best to be social, to push the urge to withdrawal down and back. He smiled and joked and did his best impression of a well-adjusted human. But all he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

He wasn’t even sure what time it was, local or home. He’d lost Danneel at some point during the evening. She’d gone back to the hotel while Rob was still pushing drinks into his hand.

She’d kissed him on his cheek, let her fingers linger on his shoulder and whispered she loved him. And the awkward tension he felt in the space between them was treacherous.

Things hadn’t been right between them for a while. When they did talk, it was strained. A fragment of what they used to be. And it terrified Jensen, to the core.

There was something  _missing_  from their relationship. Something unnameable, something that was inside him, pushing her away. He was sure she would leave him soon.

He didn’t want to lose her. More than anything, he wanted to dig his heels in and never let go. But he was afraid it was all but inevitable at this point. He could feel her slipping away from him. Each time she kissed him goodnight or goodbye, he worried it would be for the last time.

 _"Maybe we should take a break."_  Her words from last month still echoed in his head. Her voice had been so quiet, so broken. And he never hated himself more than in that moment.

Because he knew it was his fault. He’d failed her. Somewhere along the way, he’d diverged from ‘them’. He didn’t know how or why, but he knew it was his fault that he felt incomplete.

But one thing he knew for sure, he didn’t want to lose her.

Jensen gripped his chest, unaware that the anxiety had built inside him to the point where he was having chest pains.

"Jay, you okay?" Misha’s hand spread warm over Jensen’s shoulder, right where Danneel had let her fingers touch a few hours ago.

Jensen wasn’t sure what his face looked like, in that horrible moment of doubt and regret and fear, remembering her touch, and mourning a loss that hadn’t come yet. But Misha pulled the bottle from his hand and set it on the high table top, letting the glass  _tink_ like wind-chimes as it settled.

"I think he’s had enough." Misha informed whoever was sober enough to care, which at this point couldn’t have many people. "I’m gonna take him home."

And, if there had been anyone who wanted to argue, cajole him into staying longer, the tone of Misha’s voice was enough to render them mute.

"Come on, time to go." Misha leaned in close, his hand sliding under Jensen’s arm and pulling him to stand.

It was a casual gesture. Something that was a necessity, a courtesy. But the nearness of him, the way he smelled sickly sweet from alcohol and the hint of something else that went deeper than cologne or soaps and shampoos. That natural  _something_ … something unique, and undeniably Misha.

"You smell good." Jensen slurred as he hoisted him up, Jensen’s arm slung over Misha’s shoulder, and Jensen leaned heavily into him, taking a deep breath in the humid April night air. His head swam, and his limbs felt slack and heavy. The warmth that radiated out from his core was a mockery of body heat, and vaguely, somewhere distant and detached from his body, Jensen was aware that he was trashed.

The city smelled like bread, even at 2 in the morning, there was a lingering scent of fresh baked bread that permeated nearly everything. There were other, more typical cityscape smells, exhaust, chlorinated fountains, stone and dirt. But what made Rome different was the bread.

And Misha. The way his hip rubbed against Jensen’s as they walked in tandem the few blocks back to the hotel.

"You’re drunker than I thought." Was Misha’s response to Jensen’s olfactory observation.

"Danneel’s gonna leave me." Jensen admitted. The swirl of drink and exhaustion demolished all his painstakingly erected emotional barriers. And at the admission of his failure, his deep, cutting, painful suspicion, he couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad about the quiver in his voice and the lump in his throat. It was honest and real, and everything he’d been running from, desperately trying to ignore for -  _how long had it been now?_

Misha stumbled just slightly under the weight if it. But he wrapped his hand around Jensen’s wrist, that hung around his neck, and carried on.

"I don’t think that’s true. She loves you." Misha spoke slowly, and Jensen was either too drunk or not drunk enough because there was a sudden seize of panic in his gut.

But for the life of him, he couldn’t work out if it was relief or guilt or longing. One thing was for sure, it was decidedly angsty. And  _fuck_ , Jensen hated feeling like this: off-balance and lost. He longed for a time before, before he was confused or unhappy or missing something like he was now.

"But what if it’s not enough?" Jensen asked, practically pleaded, just as they turned a corner and the hotel loomed into view. Could he do it? Could he go back to that room that felt too small with a woman who might not want him, to a relationship that maybe wasn’t enough? Could he lay down next to her and pretend? "Who would it help to pretend?" He voiced his fears aloud and it was then that Misha stopped walking.

"Jensen, what’s going on?"

"She wants to take a break." Jensen croaked as Misha navigated towards the guest entrance. "She knows." He practically sobbed, as Misha pulled the door open and they tumbled into the empty hall.

"Knows what?" Misha breathed, caught in the cage of Jensen’s arms. They way they tripped saw Misha pinned against the wall, chair-rail tucked perfectly into the arch of his spine, as Jensen leaned in, grazing the tip of his nose lightly up Misha’s face, over his sharp cheekbones, up and back towards that magical place where earlobe becomes neck.

"She knows how much I want this." Jensen whispered, letting his breath ghost hot and moist over the shell of Misha’s ear.

—

"Jesus Jay, just this once, be honest with yourself, with me. I deserve that much!" Tears hung heavy but unshed in Danneel’s eyes as she tugged her loose hair behind her ears - the way she always did when she was upset or angry. They were separated by the king bed, but in the space between them, Jensen knew it was so much more than that standing in their way.

"I don’t—"

"So help me, Jay, if you say ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ one more time, I’m going to come over there and knee you in the balls!" There was a furious, beautiful anger in her eyes. Jensen snapped his mouth shut, her words reached deep and stung like a slap to the face.

And just like that, all the fight left him. “What do you want me to say?” He asked, hunched in defeat.

"That you don’t love me anymore." Her voice shook, and broke. "It would be easier that way." And the tears she’d held back till then slipped, almost unnoticed, down her cheeks. And Jesus, she was beautiful, even when she was sobbing.

"I will always love you." He confessed, and ached to go to her, to hug her and kiss her and make it all better.

"Then what is it? Am I not enough?" She wiped her face with the sleeve of her nightshirt.

"I’m not sure." he shrugged and rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I love you. And I want to be with you. But, sometimes… sometimes, I feel like we’re missing something, like  _I’m_  missing something” and there it was, the truth, so long concealed and hidden away, even Jensen wasn’t sure how long he’d felt partially unfulfilled.

"Is it Misha?" Unable to met his eyes, she turned away when she asked it.

And his first reaction was simply, “What?”

"Is it Misha. Are you in love with him?"

"I’m not gay!" His first response was anger, it sprang from that terrible center of him that was defensive and acted on instinct to deny and lash out and hide.

"Maybe not. But maybe that doesn’t really matter. I know you love him."

"Yeah. I love Jared too, like brothers."

"No, you have a brother. You and Josh, and yeah even Jared - I can see it. It’s the same. But it’s always been different with Misha. You too are… different." She shrugged, and Jensen felt like she might as well have reached into his chest and squeezed his heart.

His chest ached, and he could feel the beginnings of a panic attack. “Please, Dani. I need you.”

She sighed and pulled back the covers. “Let’s just get some sleep. We can talk about this another time.”

He agreed, thankful for the reprieve. But he didn’t sleep that night, nor had he slept well since that fight two months ago. He would lay awake at night and turn Danneel’s words over and around in his head. Feel the weight of her words, the chilling implications of them. And he would think.

He thought about Misha. He thought about what it would be like to be with him. To kiss him. To touch his face, to trace the arch of his brow and the slope of his jaw. He thought about what Misha hands would feel like, sliding down his arms, their fingers entwined.

And the more he thought about it, the more he couldn’t pretend it was disgusting or objectionable. It was,  _intriguing_. Perhaps something he would have liked to explore, if things were different.

"Maybe we should take a break." She finally broached the subject a few weeks later, as they sat on the couch in their Vancouver apartment. And she was so quiet, so broken, it caused him physical pain.

"What?"

"Just a short one, you know, so you can figure out what you want." Her lip quivered but she looked straight ahead, her hand rested on Oscar’s side where he laid between them.

Unable to speak for a second, Jensen put his hand over hers, felt the warmth of her skin and the softness of Oscar’s curly fur. “I know what I want.”

"Do you?" She said quietly and pulled her hand from under his, and tucked it against her chest. Silent tears trickled down her cheeks and ran into the hem of her shirt.

She didn’t bring it up again until a week before Jus in Bello III. They were making dinner, a luxury Saturdays afforded them. “I don’t want to lose you.”

It came out of nowhere. But as soon as she’d spoken, Jensen knew they’d been building towards it for a while. “You won’t.”

"I already am." She commented softly, speaking more to the carrots than to him.

"I would never do anything to hurt you, you know that, right?" He reached across the island and gently stilled her hands.

The knife clattered against the cutting board. “I know. But I feel like I’m holding you back, or keeping you from another part of yourself. You can’t just go on pretending everything is normal. It won’t work forever, Jay. Eventually, you’ll resent me for keeping you trapped in this life.” And this time, she did look at him. Clear eyes and soft thumb stokes over the ridge of his knuckles.

"I’m scared." he admitted after the intensity of her eyes became too much.

"I know. So am I. But I want you to be happy, I want  _us_  to be happy. And maybe that means reevaluating what it means to be ‘us’. Maybe it means learning to share.” And the sad, small smile she gave him was more heartbreaking than anything she could have said because it was so fucking hopeful, it hurt to look at.

"You really think that could work?"

"I’m willing to give it a try, at least."

—

But that’d only left Jensen with more questions than before. Was this what he wanted? Was it even possible? He knew, though somewhat abstractly, that Misha had a nontraditional marriage.

Through stories and gossip over the last few years, Jensen had gleaned that both Misha and Vicki were more fluid with their sexuality, and openly engaged in threesomes and, if the rumors were true, the occasional fling - with either gender.

He knew they still loved each other. He knew their marriage, though atypical was stronger than his own at the moment.

But the thought if it, of  _trying_  for something so far out of the realm of experience and expectations and  _normal_  was terrifying.

And no matter how hard he tried, Jensen could not reconcile loving Danneel and wanting Misha into any arrangement that  _didn’t_  reek of betrayal.

If he took that step, there was no going back. No way to undo the damage that could be done. But he also knew if he did nothing, if he continued to let  _this_ , whatever it was that compelled Jensen to fantasize about Misha, that made his heart stammer when they were alone, made his palms sweat, and his eyes linger and wander - if Jensen let it fester, roam unchecked and unexplored, Danneel _would_  leave him. Of that, he was sure.

So in Rome, late Saturday night, once Jensen was sufficiently plied with booze and regret, after Danneel left, a knowing sort of resignation in her eyes, Jensen was convinced he’d already lost her.

So when he presses his mouth, hot and wet, to the salty skin of Misha’s neck in an empty hall, the only thing Jensen could think was ‘this is what was missing’.

And it’s as if a part of him comes to life. A part that, until then, had been dormant, lost, hidden. And Jesus, it felt like home.

Leaning in, kissing Misha’s neck, open mouthed and biting, pressing his hips forward and the friction of rocking in time with Misha’s soft utterances, was like coming home.

"I want this." Jensen whispered, taking Misha’s face between his hands and bringing their lips together.

He’d never kissed a man, not even for a role, but he found that it was no different than kissing a woman. The same want, the same pull and desire. The same tilt of the head, noses grazing and lips touching. His eyes slipped shut, effortlessly.

Eventually, after Jensen smeared his lips down Misha’s neck to suck and nip at his pulse, he felt Misha’s arm come up between them, pushing Jensen back, to arms length.

In the heated space between them, Jensen could hear their ragged breaths, and the roar of the ocean in his ears. His lips were swollen and tender, and all he wanted to do was kiss him again.

"This is a mistake." Misha finally managed to say, between deep, heaving breaths.

In answer, Jensen batted Misha’s hand away, invading his personal space, pressing his body against him. "I want you." Jensen ground out, pointedly punctuating each world with a strong roll of his hips into Misha. It was indecent and catty, and fucking hot. He could feel the rigid swell of Misha’s cock against his thigh with each movement.

"Don’t." Misha tried to pull away, but still caught between the wall and Jensen’s front, there was nowhere for him to go.

"I know you want this." Jensen groaned. "I can  _feel_  it.” And he smiled, something dark and delightful growing in his smile. He felt confident, predatory. Feeling the effect he was having on Misha made him feel powerful, sensual in a way he never had before. It wasn’t the cocky swagger of knowing he could fuck, or finger. It was satisfying, to not have to assume and trust and guess that he was pleasing a woman. But having the proof of his effect quivering against his leg was painfully perfect.

"We can’t." Misha managed to push him off, and Jensen stumped, still drunk. He only got the few steps to the elevator before Jensen was on him again.

His hands grabbed at Misha’s jacket and the collar of his shirt from behind. He yanked them to the side and dipped his head to suck at Misha’s neck. And the gasp of pleasure and surprise Misha made was maddening.

"Then stop me." Jensen whispered as he grabbed Misha’s narrower hip bones and pulled him back flush with his front. The force knocking the protest from Misha’s lips as they parted in a heated ‘fuck’ that tumbled from him mouth.

"But Danneel—"

"Wants to  _share_.” Jensen informed Misha as he rested his chin on his shoulder, and slid his right hand down and over Misha’s crotch. He palmed the cylinder bulge through a layer of jeans.

And that seemed to be the end of conversation, because Misha punched the up arrow on the elevator hard enough for it to crack.

Jensen took the opportunity to press the full weight of his body  _into_  Misha, pressing him forward and bent just slightly. And with the intervening momentum, Jensen thrust his hand down the waist of Misha’s jeans and underwear.

"Oh, shit." Misha groaned and Jensen’s fingers curled around the shaft of Misha’s cock. He pulled it up, so it wasn’t point at the floor anymore, and gave it a few quick pulls.

The door to the elevator chimed and Misha made a move to straighten out and untangle, but Jensen kept his hands where they were. “Uh uh.” He tutted as the doors slid open.

"Reckless." Misha’s strained voice admonished. Jensen moved his legs, shuffling Misha into the elevator in front of him.

"Pussy." Jensen goaded, and it appeared to have the desired results as Misha grunted and proceeded to press every floor between the lobby and the 12th floor.

Jensen smiled into Misha’s hair and ground into his back. But Misha pulled away and spun around to face Jensen.

They spent the rest of the ride, floor by floor, kissing slow and sweet. Tucked into the corner of the elevator, so that when the doors open, all that would be visible was a pair of shoulders moving in unison.

At the final floor, the doors opened and closed twice before Jensen realized they needed to get off. “Your room?” Jensen asked, and he put every ounce of hope into those two words.

Even in his drunken state, he knew Misha had come alone. And as encouraging as Danneel had been, he was pretty sure she didn’t want to be woken up in the middle of the night to the sounds of gay fucking. Not yet, anyway.

Misha just smiled coyly and led Jensen by the hand down the hall. He pulled Jensen into another breathtaking kiss at the corner of his door. And after what felt like an obscenely long amount of time, Misha fished a key card from his front pocket.

"You’re sure?" Misha asked, tentative and achingly kind.

In answer, Jensen put his hand over Misha’s on the door handle and pulled down and pushed open.

There was a strangled sob in the darkness. And Misha was on him. His hands on Jensen’s face, laced in his hair, gliding down his back, over the curve of his ass, up his shoulders, to cradle the back of his head.

Together they stumbled through the entry hall, to the open space with the bed against the far wall.

And fuck, it was right. This was  _good_. This was what Jensen has been wasting away without. Lips and skin and the soft pillow of a mattress against the backs of his knees.

They pulled at their own and each other’s clothes in the inky black. Only the blue-green of the alarm clock to illuminate their faces.

And Jensen can’t help but think Misha is beautiful. The way the glow of the light makes him seem ethereal, angelic. And he struggles past the lump in his throat at the thought. Because in that moment, he forgets where Castiel ends and Misha begins. He loves them both.

"I’ve never—" Jensen starts to apologize or explain that he’s scared, he’s new, he’s inexperienced at this, but he’s cut off by Misha’s mouth on his straining cock.

He hisses in surprise, in guttural urgency at the feeling of it. Misha’s mouth is hot and wet and closes tightly around him so that he forgets he’s not supposed to buck his hips and fuck the ever living shit out of him.

But a hand to his stomach, keeping him flat against the cool sheets reminds him. And he can already feel it, that twinge at the base of his cock. That spiraling ‘more more more’ feeling that he’s always associated with cumming.

He doesn’t want it to be over. Not yet, and he pushes Misha off, with a wet pop as his lips break the suction. “Not yet.” He smiles into the darkness and reaches for Misha.

He flips them, easily. Misha now with his back against the bed, and the cool air of the room against Jensen’s heated skin makes him shiver.

He’s not sure what he  _meant_  to do when he flipped them. Maybe give Misha head? It’s something that seems safer, less daunting. But when the head of his still-wet cock knocks against the swell of Misha’s ass accidentally, and Misha seethes ‘Fuck me, please’ into the dark, Jensen knows its what he wants.

He wants to be inside Misha. He wants to rock his hips and feel that familiar feeling of pulling out and pushing in. He wants to fuck Misha.

Not really sure what to do, he reaches down, to spread Misha’s cheeks apart, running his fingers up the valley of his ass until he feels the pucker of skin he’s aiming for.

He spits on his left hand, and runs it over and into Misha’s ass hole. He gives himself a few quick jerks, pulling the pre cum down around the head of his cock. And he presses forward.

The tip of him finding the entrance of Misha easily. And using his fingers, and rocking slowly, he gently eases into him. Inch by inch. It’s slow and somehow strange and new and better than he imagined in those secret, privates places of his soul where he allowed himself to want this. To want Misha.

"Jesus." Misha grunts the first time Jensen slides almost out and pushes back in. It’s still tight, and almost uncomfortable. But a few more thrusts, and it’s no different than fucking a woman.

Except when he reaches to Misha’s waist, to pull his hands down to grab his hips and angle him up as he drives deeply into him, it’s not the dainty bones of a woman he’s used to. Instead, Misha feels sturdy, solid under him.

"Is this good?" Jensen asks, forgetting that he’s supposed to know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn’t even care that he sounds like a virgin on prom night. He just needs to know, needs to make sure Misha is enjoying this as much as he is. Because, fuck, with each thrust, he can feel himself coming unraveled.

"Oh, fuck. Yeah." Misha’s voice is thin and stretched, like the ache that Jensen feels in himself has somehow radiated out and into Misha too. "Touch me, please.”

Clumsily, Jensen reaches between them, getting mostly balls at first. He’s never done this to another man before. But he knows the mechanics of it. He knows to lick his palm, and spread the bead of slick cum down the shaft. He knows to twist just slight as he pumps his fist up and down. Just enough pressure to move skin and  _track_  along the ridge of the vein with the pad of his thumb.

And he’s still fucking him, while he strokes in an increasingly erratic rhythm.

"Stop, stop." Misha groans, but Jensen honestly doesn’t think he could stop himself if he wanted to. "Oh, fuck, I’m gonna—" but Misha doesn’t finish his sentence before Jensen can feel Misha’s entire lower body begin to jerk and twitch, spilling warm, thick cum over his hand and Misha’s stomach.

And feeling Misha spasm in orgasm pulls the same blind furry for completion from Jensen. He braces himself with both hands, spreading sticky cum along Misha’s sides and on the sheets, and fucks Misha until he can feel his own orgasm spreading up and out.

He pulls out, not quite soon enough, spreading his cum out from Misha’s ass to his leg, around his balls and dick and finally his stomach.

Jensen means to apologize for making such a ridiculous mess, but his eyes swing shut, his to toes curl and the only thing capable of forming coherent words is spent uttering ‘fuck’ over and over and over while his body quakes and he sees dancing lights behind the darkness of his shut eyelids.

After a few minutes of trying to catch his breath, he finally rolls to the side, a heavy arm still draped over Misha’s chest.

"So…?" He says, still slightly tipsy, into the heated air.

Beside him and under his arm, Jensen can feel Misha’s body as he chuckles.

"So… that happened." He agrees, and Jensen laughs too.

"Yeah." An awkward silence begins to built and Jensen solves this new problem by turning on his side, and pulling Misha’s back towards him.

"Tomorrow." Is Misha’s sleepy reply to the unasked question of ‘What does this mean?’ ‘What do we so now?’.

"Tomorrow." Jensen yawns in agreement and let’s his eyes slip shut.

And for the first time in a long time, Jensen sleeps soundly, untroubled by doubts and fears and regret.

**Author's Note:**

> image credit: [[X](http://sillie82.livejournal.com/295691.html)][[X](https://twitter.com/robertaberti2/status/195685643261710336/photo/1)][[X](http://www.flickr.com/photos/housefullofbooks/sets/72157629938919915/)]


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